


If This Is Communication

by evening_spirit



Series: Communication 'verse [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Non-canon Mental Illness, Slow Burn, other characters mentioned in passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_spirit/pseuds/evening_spirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SilverFlint modern AU. John Silver works his ass off as a pizza delivery guy to earn his tuition. He has one regular customer that he would very much like to talk to (or more) one day, but the red bearded, freckled guy doesn't seem very sociable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tell Me Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> * the title from the song "Communication" by Cardigans

The heat wave that started in late May stretched until the early days of June. It was getting increasingly difficult to hide in scarce shadows, clothes clung to sweaty skin and John's leg ached more than usual. If he didn't need all the money he could get to pay the next installment of his tuition, he would have stayed at the apartment. Out of anyone's sight he'd allow himself to navigate on crutches, rather than wear the prosthetic, and he'd let the sore skin of his stump some much needed rest.

As it was though, he parked his bike in front of Max's, slung the pizza bag over his arm and limped inside. He'd made three deliveries today and was going to add more to that count, despite the heat, despite the ache and despite Billy's concerned gaze. Damn Billy, he had to be standing at the counter and glaring just as John walked in, before he managed to put on his "feeling like a young god" face.

He fixed the latter, futile though it was. "Any new orders?" Threw his bag on the counter with a broad fake smile.

Billy tilted his head to the side and continued to glare. John counted to five in his head, the smile still present. As he got to the last numeral, Billy inhaled theatrically, puffed out the air, then pulled the scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it and handed it to John.

"It's Thursday. You think I don't know the reason you're here today? And I almost gave this delivery to Anne..." Billy shook his head. As if he would even attempt such transgression.

Truth was no, John didn't work today because of this particular order. If he didn't need the money so desperately, he would have actually called in sick today because of it. For the first time, since the whole thing started, he didn't look forward to meeting the guy.

Thursday. Like a clockwork. He glanced at the address, even though he didn't need to; he knew it by heart after the last three months.

Max's Tavern had regulars, of course, like any other food joint with a decent menu. People who came in every now and then, or people who ordered out frequently enough to be remembered. Some usually ordered on same days, others at random intervals. Some ordered often, others every few weeks. And then they had this guy.

Freckles, as John and Billy called him. John sometimes amused himself trying to match various names to the guy, but nothing seemed to fit. Mark? Alan? Christopher? Freckles ordered Sicilian Large and Milano Medium with extra garlic, every Thursday around five pm, every week since March the 3rd. He lived at the end of one of Oak Grove's branches. Steep road that could be negotiated on a bike lead up the hill and then, the mezzanine house beneath a massive roof spread out at the top of the flight of stairs, under a canopy of cedars and fig trees. That flight of stairs a bike couldn't help with. It didn't even have a railing. When John had come here for the first time, he shook his head and thought he should have let Anne or Rackham take this delivery. But then he'd climbed those stairs, handed over the pizza, taken the money and thought to himself that it had been worth it. And not because of the tip that was a generous fifteen percent.

Because of a glimpse of the man's copper wavy lock, a bristle of his saffron stubble and a trail of freckles on his forearm, that disappeared under a tucked up sleeve of beige, paint-stained tunic. John had a thing for freckly red heads of any gender (Anne being a rare exception, but only because both Max and Rackham would kill him if he tried to as much as smile at her that way). He hadn't managed to speak a word to the guy, so quickly the door opened and closed again, almost as if the man inside had feared to look at the person who brought him food, or maybe at the world at large.

That same day John had told Billy that he's calling dibs on this address, should it ever come up again. He couldn't believe it when next week Billy, grinning like a loon, had handed him the note with this very same address.

"You're in the luck, John Silver," his best friend beamed. "Good hunting!"

It should have been easy. John Silver was nothing if not smooth. Smooth talker, smooth manipulator of innocent souls. Granted this man might not have been so innocent and he was probably much older and experienced than any twenty-four-years-old pizza‑delivery‑guy‑slash‑student, but the bigger the challenge, the more John wanted to rise up to the occasion. Week after week he had tried to talk to Freckles. And week after week the door would only open a crack, the guy would stretch out his hand with the money in it, take the box and slam the door closed. Sometimes he peeked half an eye through the crack, sometimes not even that. Sometimes it was only his damn freckled forearm. If John knew his actual name, it might be easier, but he couldn't just randomly call, "Hey, Tom!" for example.

Nonetheless, after a few such instances, John hadn't been discouraged in the slightest. Quite on the contrary – he'd decided he would tame this guy. He would condition him like one does a wild animal, or a frightened child. He would convince Freckles that he was friendly, that he was trustworthy and he would make the guy open those door the whole way one day.

So far he'd been making progress. Two weeks ago Freckles had opened the door wide enough for John to see his whole face for the first time. And what a handsome face it was. Gray eyes with just a hint of golden-green around the irises; freckles, as John had imagined, on his nose and all over his cheekbones. And that scruff the color of the prairie in a dry season. It lasted a blink of an eye, but John considered it a success.

A week ago their eyes actually met and John gave him his trademark little smile with half-blink that worked wonders on so many men, women and everyone in between.

This week...

This week, as John carefully climbed off his bike, his prosthesis chafed against the already irritated skin on the upper part of his shank and caused a throbbing spasm in the nonexistent muscles of his lower shank. A new wave of cold perspiration flooded his face and trickled down between his shoulder-blades. Today he was not in any form to build a rapport with the guy.

He limped to the mailbox at the bottom of the stairs and with each step became more and more aware that the pain in his stump was something more serious than a simple chafe. The heat, profuse sweating, maybe swelling – it could all have a regrettable outcome. He should have stayed home this afternoon. He was going to pay for his stubbornness with at least a couple days off prosthetic. Hopefully not more.

There was an intercom near the mailbox. A small button and a speaker he'd never tried to use before. The first time he'd been here, he hadn't noticed it, truth be told, but even after that, his goals had been different. Today, priorities changed. John figured calling up might not help anything anyway, but it wouldn't hurt to try and he was getting desperate. He pressed the button.

It took a while. Almost fifteen heartbeats, not that John counted.

And then, "Yes?" came a wary question. John realized the he'd never heard Freckles speak before and now a shiver went down his spine. Freckles had a deep, elegant timbre, so pleasant to the ear. He imagined the man saying Good afternoon, Hello, John's name... "Who is this?" the disembodied voice brought John back to reality.

"Pizza delivery," he said quickly and waited. Forced down a lump in his throat.

The man on the other side of the connection sighed, "Could you bring it upstairs, please?" he asked. The accent was not familiar. Perhaps he was British?

John pondered on the response. Could he really bring it upstairs? He probably should but... "I'd rather you came down, if it's all the same?"

"I always order from Max's and your delivery guy brings it to my door. Isn't that what you're paid for?" there was a hint of impatience in the voice, and something else. Something John would interpret as panic if it wasn't too far fetched. Or maybe that's exactly what it was?

This tone, more than a suggestion that he was not doing his job, finally convinced John to move ahead. "I'll come right up," he said and begun the climb.

Perhaps it hurt Freckles more to come out of his house, than it hurt John to walk those few steps. When he got to the top though, he was soaked with sweat and his bad leg cramped so hard it was difficult to stand. He pressed the doorbell.

The door opened instantly.

"Thank you," Freckles choked out, then blinked. "It is you," he said with a mixture of surprise and hurt, even betrayal.

He had his hair tied in the back today. Gray shirt, with sleeves tucked all the way up above his elbows, was stained in the front with a stripe of bright blue paint. And unbuttoned almost down to his navel. Some of the pale golden hair on his chest bore traces of the same blue paint and there were freckles underneath. Hundreds, thousands of freckles.

John licked his lips.

"Yeah." He didn't know what else to say. All the clever lines evaporated from his head, leaving only bare honesty. He tore his eyes away from the chest and looked at Freckles' freckled cheek bones. "I'm sorry I called you to come down. Just... I'm having a bad day today, is all. But I shouldn't have, you're right, it is my job."

"No," Freckles shook his head and looked briefly at the floor under his feet. Then he met John's eyes again. "I'm sorry too. Here," he extended his hand with a few bills in it. "Extra tip."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

John reached out. "Thanks." Their fingers met when he took the money. Then he first broke contact. He handed over pizza boxes and turned around quickly, embarrassed.

He cursed his leg, sweltering heat, his whole damn life. Here he finally had an opening. They spoke to each other for crying out loud (and he would fall in love with the man's voice alone, he could listen to him reading a dishwasher instruction manual). And his brain all but short-circuited because of mere discomfort.

John's brain short-circuited on more than just the use of the language. He failed to pay attention to his surroundings, didn't notice that the door behind him never closed, neglected to mind his footing as he took a step forward and down the railing-less stairs. His knee buckled and he stumbled ahead with no control over his arms, legs or the pizza bag that soared, then, brought about by the strap, hit him under his shoulder blade.

It stung only as long as it took his brain to register the searing pain in his already abused limb. Some distant, unconcerned part of his consciousness catalogued possible injuries – sprained tendons, dislocated knee joint, shattered knee-cap – oh okay, at least badly bruised. Meanwhile the primeval, animal part tried to force some inarticulate wailing out of his mouth.

John gritted his teeth and balled his fists and remembered to breathe. Slowly. Breathe. Through the pain. Then he cracked open his eyelids. The sand colored stones of the stairs swam before his eyes, while vegetation on the side was a fuzzy mass of various shades of green and patches of sunlight. His whole leg pulsated with a twinge resembling of electric current.

"Are you okay?" a voice from far, far above asked the most idiotic question possible.

John turned his head until the house and the open doorway entered his field of vision. Freckles still stood there, two pizza boxes clutched in his hands.

"No," John spat, even though it sounded more like a moaned, "Ouch."

"Do you need help?"

Shit, did he not? John squinted against the tears prickling in eyes. Breathe, he remembered. Breathe.

And then, hands were touching him, pulling him up. "Come on. Come here. Up, come up," a frantic voice kept repeating over and over again.

"Wait, slower." John tried to compensate, but Freckles was strong and apparently also pretty freaked out. Before John could resist, he was vertical again, with Freckles' arm slung around his waist and his own arm over Freckles' shoulders, his wrist in a deathly grip of the man's other hand.

This was not how John imagined them touching for the first time.

"Ready?" Freckles turned his face toward John and in his eyes John saw barely contained hysteria. He nodded.

He knew they had to hurry and he did his best to hop into the safety of the house interior as fast, as if they were followed by a horde of bloodthirsty buccaneers.

Once inside, he leaned forward on the first flat surface he found – a waist-high cabinet. Freckles slammed the door behind them with a loud thud. John looked over his shoulder and found the other man leaning against the door, as if he could block them from opening with his own body. His eyes were closed, head tilted back and resting against the door, and he was breathing fast through half-open mouth.

Damn if it wasn't some real agoraphobia.

"You don't get out much, do you?" John spoke before his brain-to-mouth filter caught up. Not that he had a very effective brain-to-mouth filter. It rarely worked and he usually didn’t feel that uncomfortable because of its many malfunctions.

Freckles opened his eyes and leveled his face with John's. His breathing slowed.

"No," he replied, "not really." Was it amusement in his voice? Breaking through the layer of terror? John swallowed the bile in his throat. Freckles still glared straight at him and his gray-green eyes shone with something akin to fever. "This was actually the first time in three years, I think."

John blinked and raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. Wow," he managed, not brimming with intelligence. "I feel special."

Freckles snorted.

"Would you like to come in?" He pushed away from the door and gestured toward the inside of the house. "Take a seat maybe, rest a little."

"Sure." John looked around. "Thanks."

The entry area opened to a wide foyer. Color of tiles on the floor resembled natural clay, walls were cotton-white and decorated with two, strategically placed, colorful abstract paintings. The only furniture was the cabinet John propped himself up on and a tall pendulum clock at the far end on the left, near the stairs. One flight of stairs led up, presumably to the private bedroom zone, the other one down, maybe to the garage, or some studio, as the house utilized natural slopes of the terrain.

The living areas on the ground floor were open and interconnected. Wide, inviting archway opposite the entrance lead to the living room – John could see armchairs and a comfortable looking couch even from where he stood. To the right, he glimpsed an antique commode, so it might have been a dining room or a kitchen.

"I'll get those inside." Freckles stood next to John with pizza boxes in his hands again. "Would you need some assistance moving around?"

"Uh." John's cheeks burned with embarrassed blush. "Yeah," he nodded. "I might."

Freckles walked into the dining area and returned a moment later, empty handed. He stopped next to John and extended his arm without touching him. His pose expressed polite inquiry, this time, nothing like the rushed urgency with which he acted outside. He waited for John to touch him, to lean on him in a way that would be the most comfortable. His right arm encircled John's waist again, like before, only now it wasn't invasive but welcome. His left palm waited in front of John, open, waiting to support John's weight if he chose to grasp it.

"Armchair or a chair?" Freckles asked in his deep voice right next to John's ear. His breath tickled the side of John's cheek sending a shiver to the bottom of John's guts.

"Chair," John managed to say without too much tremble in his voice. For a moment he feared that if he turned to look at Freckles right now, he would just grab his face and kiss the man right on the lips. He let their hands touch and felt the warmth radiating from Freckles' palm. He was enveloped in the man's intoxicating smell, a mixture of soap, some musky cologne and oil paint. For a moment he didn't even feel the pain in his injured leg. As long as he didn't put his weight on it, at least.

When they found themselves inside the dining room and Freckles helped John sink into the chair, when he moved his hands away from John's body, John felt aching emptiness in all the places they touched just a moment ago.

"Thanks," he breathed out, too shaken to look up.

"Not a problem. Is the least I could do." Freckles stood awkwardly a couple steps away, rubbing his palms, like he felt emptiness in them too. "Would you like some tea? I can make you some tea. You just sit here, until you feel well enough to move." He started to walk away, but John shook his head and chuckled.

He glanced at Freckles, some of his self confidence returning now, that he didn't need to divert all of his attention to remaining in a vertical position.

"Are you sure you know what you offer?" he asked with a wink. Then, at Freckles' questioning stare, he elaborated, "That I may stay here until I'm well enough to move – you mean I can stay here over the weekend?" He was full-on grinning now.

Freckles squinted at him. Didn't say No and didn't say Yes. Instead he walked to the pizza box sitting on the table and opened it.

"Was it a ruse?" he asked to John's utter surprise. "To get into my house?" He pushed the pizza in John's direction and made an inviting gesture.

"No," John replied glancing at the food. It would be against the regulations to take the treat from a customer, but then, "No!" he said stronger as the meaning of the question registered. He met Freckles' glare. "It wasn't a ruse."

"Hm." Freckles bowed his head and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He hooked the thumb of one hand on the belt of his pants and scratched the back of his head with the other. Then he let it fall to his belt as well. He scrutinized John with a tilt of his head and a smirk, a universal display of self confidence that contradicted his sudden disclosure. "Because I wanted to come up with a ruse to get you in here. I think since the second delivery. Just... didn't know how to explain myself." He looked around the dining room.

Only now John noticed that all the large windows, that should have allowed summer sunlight inside, were covered. The room was well lit, but it was all artificial light.

"You don't have to explain anything," John whispered. He wanted to be delicate about it, respectful, like Freckles had been a moment ago when he helped John walk in here from the foyer.

"Good." Freckles nodded. "Because I don't really want to."

They held each other's eyes for a moment and John knew there would never be any questions from this man about his leg either. Not, unless he wanted to talk. And that they would talk about what caused Freckles' agoraphobia only when the man chose to disclose this secret.

Everything else though, was a fair game.

"Name's John, by the way," John said after a stretch of silence. With a small smile and a warm half blink.

"James," Freckles replied and bared his teeth in a smile that was as affectionate, as it was predatory.

* * *

_Just because you know my name, doesn't mean you know my story.  
_ _**~unknown**_


	2. This Image Is Incomplete

John.

So that was the kid's name.

Besides that, John remained as much a mystery to James as he had always been.

The first time this bouncy young man, topped by a mop of black curly hair, with electric-blue eyes and a smile like a spring breeze had appeared at his doorstep, he had struck James like a bolt of lightning. Stunned him. Maybe because it was also the first time James had opened the door and looked at the outside world in almost three years. It had been Miranda's idea that he ordered dinner that time, instead of her. That he took it from whoever would bring it. That he paid for it. It had been supposed to be therapeutic.

It had been traumatic.

But next week James had told Miranda that he wanted to try it again. He'd hoped the same black haired boy would come back.

He had come back.

And then he had come every week since, still as vigorous, smile as bright, eyes sparkling. He had this intoxicating air of youth about him. This openness, unspoiled trust in the world, naive belief that nothing bad ever happened. That, since life had been a string of fairytales up until now - maybe it hadn't, no one's life was, but it must have been relatively quiet - that it would never change. At least that's what James had seen in his brisk gestures, heard in every exuberant 'Thanks!'. That's what he needed, that's what he craved to feel himself, what he wanted to get infected with. What he remembered feeling so many years ago, he'd almost forgotten it was even possible.

He couldn't count how many times he'd tried to talk to the kid, how many times he'd wanted to smile, to be inviting, open. But he couldn't break through the blockade in his mind. His throat constricted every time he opened the door, his vision swam, his intestines revolted sometimes to the point that he feared he would throw up at the poor unaware kid's feet.

It was getting frustrating.

Miranda knew about it. Miranda knew everything about him, she and Charles and sometimes Hal Gates were the only people with whom he had regular contact.

Now it occurred to James that this whole charade must have been Miranda's idea, that she found the kid and orchestrated their meeting at last. Told him what to say, what to do.

Today had been awkward from the start. Kid - John - had never before used the intercom. And why would he request that James come down to get the delivery, if he wasn't instructed by Miranda? At first James had assumed it had simply been someone else, but then - it was John. And then John brought the delivery up but stumbled and fell, presumably spraining his ankle, forcing James out of the house. If that wasn't Miranda's ploy as well, James couldn't figure out what it was.

And now...

Now John sat on the chair, one arm slung over the back, legs spread apart, grinning. Inviting. Seductive. Despite the heat he was wearing long jeans, but his white Skillet t-shirt had sleeves torn off, revealing well-defined, tanned arms. A darker patch of sweat stained the fabric on his chest. How old was he really? Twenty? Twenty five at most. And yet so confident.

Sprained ankle my ass.

"What is it you want to do, then?" James asked. He wasn't even angry. Disappointed maybe, filled with contempt for Miranda, for himself. Not for John. Was it even his real name? John? Did Miranda pay him? "You want no tea, no food." Truth be told, despite everything, James wouldn't mind taking John upstairs to fuck him senseless right then, even though after three months of reverse stalking it would be somewhat underwhelming.

John blinked and a barely perceptible sigh escaped him. He unhooked his arm from the back of the chair and placed the palm on his left knee. "Actually, despite your generous invitation to stay the weekend," he said, "I think I should probably evacuate." He lowered his face and black locks obscured what little James could still see, then he put some pressure on the knee. The movement was minute and James could only recognize it by the contraction of the muscles in John's upper arm.

Strange.

Did he hear a whimper or was it his imagination playing tricks?

John looked up, a bright smile not quite relaxing tension lines around his eyes. "I have a stupid question." He pushed a strand of black curls behind his ear. "Do you happen to have any Vicodin or somesuch?"

"Vi-- what?"

Saying this was an unexpected question would be the understatement of the century.

"It's a pain medication."

"I know what it is. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do have Vicodin, just... I'm not giving it to you!"

John nodded, accepting the answer. He suddenly looked ten years younger and fifty years older at the same time. Vulnerable and so, so weary.

James felt a pang of guilt. "How about Ibuprofen?" He offered.

"Won't work."

Nothing bad ever happened.

"Wait a minute." Driven by a sudden decision, James ambled to the bathroom where he kept his meds. This was way too bizarre for his liking. Vicodin was not a walk in the park. Not a vitamin, rather a prescription medication given as a treatment of moderate to severe pain, acute or chronic. An opioid, but surely not the kind of drug you would want to take if you tried to desensitize yourself before something unpleasant, like sex with some old weirdo recluse, that some strange woman paid you to have. 

James glared at himself in the mirror. "You are wrong, asshole," he muttered to his reflection. His ability to read people must have been more copromised from lack of use, than he'd imagined. He took the vial and poured a glass of water from the faucet.

Upon his return to the dining room he found John standing, with his back to the doorway, leaning on the table. This time a pained gasp was unmistakable and the line of John's shoulders spoke of effort. James backed up and closed the bathroom door with exaggerated thud to announce his return. Back in the dining room, John managed to half-turn toward him by then, his stance loose, but all weight on the right leg, left hand lightly on the table, for support, just in case. He was smiling, but his blue eyes were cautious.

James extracted one pill from the vial and put it, along with the glass, on the table.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he couldn't stop himself from asking. John picked the pill and put it into his mouth. He shrugged, brow raised. Took a swig from the glass and swallowed. "Pain is usually a signal that something is wrong," James continued. "If you mask it with analgesic and continue to do whatever is causing it... Aren't you afraid it's going to make things worse?"

"Actually I know it's gonna make things worse," John shrugged again. "Don't expect me to bring your delivery next week."

James squinted.

John smirked.

He tried to change position and needed to lean on the table with both hands. James caught a glimpse of his grimace before he bowed and hid his face behind the curtain of black curls again.

"I don't have much of a choice though, do I?" he let out.

James honesty didn't know. He didn't know what was the root of the problem and he would never pry, no matter how much he wanted to know why a young man like John was so well accustomed with strong drugs. But he was quite certain now that the fall outside his house was not the cause of John being in pain. Rather a result. Something had been wrong prior and John had said as much, James now remembered. He had said that he was having a bad day.

He felt sorry for treating him unfairly, even if it was only in his mind. He hadn't acted on it, but he felt his thoughts tainted. 

"You should sit down," he muttered. "Wait until the pill starts working."

"Aren't you expecting someone?"

James glanced at his watch. Miranda wasn't supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes. He shook his head. Then he turned to the cabinet to pull out the plates. To do anything, really, that would let him turn his back to John. He heard a grunt, then a scrap of chair legs against the floor. He gave John a count to five more. When he faced him again, the kid was lounged on the chair and smiling like before, even though his face was covered with a glistening layer of sweat and his breathing was coming out is short gasps.

He wanted to keep the charade, so James decided to play along. He put the plates on the table and took a seat. Searched for something to talk about, that would avert the awkward silence.

"Are these yours?" John broke his reverie; he asked like it was the most natural thing. James didn't understand, so the kid pointed his thumb in the direction of the foyer. "Pictures."

"Oh, the paintings," James corrected out of habit. John's smirk turned a tad more genuine and James noted, with some surprise, that he relaxed. "That's Charles Vane, actually. He's pretty hot these days." He'd gotten those two as a gift from his friend, years ago, but judging by Charles's rise in reputation, they would be worth a small fortune now. He put a piece of pizza on his plate. "You sure you don't want any?" he digressed and John shook his head. "I'm more into realistic art, to be honest."

"And I'm afraid I'm not versed in modern art at all, whether realistic or abstract. "John rested his elbow on the table, scratched his temple, then slid his fingers down the side of his face. "But I'll make sure to remember the name. Where could I see yours, then?" He let his forefinger rest on his lower lip at the end of that question.

James squinted again but otherwise kept his demeanor indifferent. Inside, his heart, the irrational backstabber, picked up its rhythm. That youthful joy of life he'd recognized in John from afar, was even more arousing up close. He wanted his own fingers to do that, to touch that lower lip, upper lip. To feel the softness. The hardness of John's teeth. The wetness of his tongue... Stop. He had no right to go there. "At the moment Frasier Project, the corner of Olympic and Olive, Downtown, if I remember correctly," he managed to say in a casual tone.

"Hm." John had this unnerving habit of staring straight into his interlocutor's eyes. At least he stared straight into James's eyes for most of this conversation, James couldn't tell if he was like this with everybody. But now he could swear John was staring at his mouth. He blinked and looked just a notch higher. Corners of his lips curved upward, just a twitch. "I'll have to visit then."

"You want to buy some?"

John burst with hearty laughter. "Oh, no." He shook his head. "I would presume that's way above my financial range. I just want to see what you're doing," he added with warmth better used someplace else for some other purpose. Then he cocked his head to the side. "Unless you'd fancy painting something especially for me." He looked straight at James's lips again, in anticipation of the answer.

If he only knew. If he realized that right this moment, among the paintings James had started in his studio, stood one of his very shape. Abstract in a way, an impression, really a shape only at the moment, unfinished, repainted too many times, incomplete. James kept looking at it and seeing that something was missing. He didn't know the boy who seized his imagination, didn't know him at all.

"How did you know I was a painter anyway?" he asked instead of answering John's question.

John's smile faltered, but only for a fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it moment. Then bright warmth was back again, as if nothing could quench it.

"Have you seen yourself?"

James glanced down and indeed, his shirt was stained with paint. And unbuttoned. He pulled the hems together, suddenly self conscious.

"Oh, don't," John said in a soft, husky voice. "I quite like it this way."

James glared, heart hammering, mouth half-opened. He found John attractive, he couldn't deny it. And since John apparently knew it anyway, why would he even try? He let go of the fabric and observed as John's eyes wandered down there, to the opening and his chest beneath. James traced the remnants of the paint on the fine hairs on his chest and observed John's eyes glaze over.

Suddenly John blinked and shook his head.

"Sorry," he stammered and sat straighter. "This must be Vicodin messing with my head. I'm not usually like this." He averted his face, but James saw warm blush creep up anyway.

Damn, James thought, but he didn't say anything.

"I should get going."

But you said you'd stay over the weekend! James wanted to protest but bit his tongue.

John stood up.

"Do you need..."

"No!"

He tried to put his weight on his bad leg and it didn't quite hold. His breath quickened and droplets of perspiration appeared on his temples. He cast a calculating glance at the space between himself and the wall separating the dining room from the foyer. Three steps at a normal pace, two and a half maybe. James found himself upright, standing no more than a reach of an arm away from him, ready to assist. He couldn't just watch him struggle.

John balled his fists and braved a hobbling step. Then another. And another. Finally he reached out and leaned on the wall, hopped the rest of the way.

"Can I use your bathroom?" he asked.

James agreed, of course and watched John hobble another ten feet or so, through the foyer. There was something odd with his left leg. Something unnatural. His shank appeared slightly misaligned with the thigh and not at the knee, but a palm's width below. Like a twig that was broken. When he emerged from the bathroom a couple minutes later though, his leg was straight again and he could step on it, albeit carefully.

He limped to the door, hesitated, pulled a strand of hair behind his ear and gave James a shy glance.

"Sorry about all this." He shrugged. "And thanks."

"Don't mention it. See you around?"

"Yeah, see you." He opened the door and limped outside. Before the door closed James saw him lean to pick up the pizza bag discarded on top of the stairs.

The door shut and James moved, like pulled by the strings, by a sudden decision. The door to his house was framed by narrow windows, running a full height of the doorframe. They were curtained, like all windows in his house, but now he pulled the edge of the curtain away and looked outside. He didn't care about widening perspective, it didn't matter. He watched John slowly labor down the stairs, one step at a time, cautious and focused.

And he realized what exactly was missing in the picture he tried to paint down in his studio. Or rather what was the surplus, because the real thing was missing... John's leg. It could be the only explanation, John must have lost his leg and was wearing some artificial appendage.

Nothing bad ever happened. And yet, despite the undeniable trauma, John retained this joy that James was so sorely lacking, he still managed to smile through the pain, to be fearless, audacious and full of hope. James had to see him again. More than that , he had to get to know him, become friends. This was more than a physical attraction. This was the infatuation with another man's mind, and James remembered feeling this way once before in his life, even though this man and that one, couldn't be more different.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)


End file.
